trade your toy guns for real ones
by abaddons
Summary: they've always been a strange kind of family.


Dean tells Sam that it's just a little bite, that he's got nothing to be afraid of, but Sammy's having none of it and it's quite clear why. Sammy's crying, a snotty mess, hugging Dean so tightly that he can feel his ribs. He knows it's just Sam's way of handling the bad stuff (because Sam has always been the brawler, the crier, the screamer, while Dean is perfectly _Dean_: reserved, level-headed, calm when a wasp lands on his finger) but _Jesus_, it's not even Sam's wound. It's his, and it hurts like the h-word that Daddy doesn't like them to say, but he's trying to put on a good face and Sam's keeping him from doing that.

Daddy comes over and swabs the bite with an alcohol-dipped towel, which burns like fire. He grits his teeth until the wound is clean, until Daddy finishes stitching it up with needle and thread.

"Maybe'll scar," Daddy grunts. "Maybe not. We'll just have to see."

"Is he gonna be okay?" Sam pipes up, nervous. "What if he turns into a-"

"Oh, he won't," Daddy reassures them, ruffling Sammy's hair. "This isn't the kind of bite that spreads."

"But what if it was?" Sam asks.

"Then I'd take care of it," says their father, smiling. "You boys won't get turned. You're strong. And Dean," he nods, "you did good today."

Dean flushes with pride. Daddy's praise never comes cheap, and _you did good _means _you did great_ in his book.

After his hand has been bandaged and taped, the three of them get in the Impala and drive home, Sam sleeping against Dean's shoulder while Dean watches the trees blur through the window. Behind them, a fire crackles and branches split.

* * *

They've always been a strange sort of family.

None of the other kids they play with have dads who take them on hunting trips every weekend, or every week, for that matter. None of the other kids can load a rifle in three seconds, tops, and shoot a moving target from ten feet away. And none of the other kids know how to make a fire, a proper one, for burning and salting the bones of the dead or which plants to burn to cleanse a house or that salt is good for keeping bad things out. But they do, and Dean carries this special knowledge around with him like a treasure. It's his family's little secret, so when one of the boys makes a strange face during a baseball game or their mothers look at them funny and usher their kids quickly indoors, Dean doesn't mind so much. Daddy told him that the stuff that secrets are made of lose their power once they're laid out in the open, and Dean doesn't want that, no sir Neither does Sammy.

They're good at keeping quiet when they need to be.

* * *

Dad takes care of the two of them, but sometimes he helps take care of Sammy because Sammy is the youngest and he needs someone to _care _the most. He doesn't mind wiping snot off of his baby brother's upper lip or holding his hand when they go out because he loves Sammy in a fierce kind of way. Daddy is happy when they're happy, and Dean is happy when everyone is happy. Sam is just happy to be with them, living and hunting, and so it all works out, in the end.

It's not hard to do, really. Dad had showed them the first time, practicing with rabbits in the forest, moving on to birds and fleet-footed deer. Then they'd gone on to what Daddy calls the "real" game, and Dean had done just fine. Killing the bad things is easier than killing animals, Dean thinks, and so does Sam. Sam had gone and cried on his first, after the wolf had turned back into a man, and Dad had held Sammy close.

It's not hard.

Dad is the best at it. He teaches them the right way to stand with a gun, how to make a shot that counts. Head or heart are the two main things to look out for. Silver for the wolves. Holy water for vampires. Whenever he makes a shot, Dad smiles.

"That's a good boy, Dean," he'll say. They'll have a big meal afterwards to celebrate. There might be pie.

Sam usually watches, not doing anything - he's still shy. But once in a while, Sam will decide to join and Daddy will stand behind him, helping him to shoot the shot that counts, the shot that kills the bad thing. Dad is always sure, always gets a head or a heart. And Sam's eyes are always wild when it's done, face stretched tight with a grin so wide that it's almost splitting the skin.

* * *

When he makes the right shot, Dean feels a little bit bigger inside. He's growing up. Going to grow taller than even Daddy someday, but he'll never quit this.

He'll keep hunting the real game, the stuff that matters.

So will Sammy, he thinks.


End file.
